


The Paint is Still Fresh

by thesleepypanda



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: And now he kicks it with Martin, And then bailed to become a bartender, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Lonely!Martin, M/M, What if Gerard gave Mary's book to Gertrude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 12:18:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18916843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesleepypanda/pseuds/thesleepypanda
Summary: .“So, you’re more into sex on the beach.”Martin choked on the beer that he’d been making a valiant effort to drink.Or: Gerard is done with all things spooky, living a simple life, until Martin shows up on his doorstep..





	The Paint is Still Fresh

The door didn’t creak open slowly. No sinister figure, hidden in the shadows, demanded to know what he wanted in a low, hoarse voice.

No. A fern sat cheerily next to a bright red door, and it swung open easily.

Even so, Martin immediately took a step back and almost tumbled down the stairs. He quickly clutched the side railing, to steady himself and brace for whatever happened next. 

“Easy there. You alright?” 

Physically, he was along the lines of what he’d expected. Long black hair, various piercings, tight black jeans with holes in the knees, and tattoos on nearly every inch of visible skin. But his kind tone, concerned expression, and calm energy were...unexpected.

“Oh, um—yes!” Jesus. He hated how his voice got too high when he was nervous. His mother informed him, many times, that it was extremely irritating.

“I’m Martin. Blackwood. You’re Gerard Keay, right? Well, I guess I already knew that. Anyway, I’m from the Magnus Institute and I was wondering—”

His demeanor changed so rapidly that Martin barely got out a yelp out before being yanked by the collar and shoved inside. Gerard looked both ways down the street before shutting the door and turning the bolt.

 

**_____________**

 

This _Martin_ was gangly, freckled, and dressed in a pastel-pink jumper. He flattened himself against the wall and looked...terrified. So, yeah. He was about the least spooky thing imaginable. Still, almost all the entities disguised themselves one way or another. Best to play it safe. He took another step forward, attempting to look menacing. 

“How did you know where I live?” 

“I—I’m here to ask you a few questions about—”

Gerard held up a pointer finger, silencing him immediately. “We’ll get to the why. _How_ did you find me?”

“Oh, well, I didn’t.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“On my own, that is. Sorry. Peter told me. Peter Lukas?”

“The Lukases sent you,” he said flatly. “Great.”

“Yeah. And to be honest, I have no idea how he knows anything. I mean, it seems a bit more like Elias’s territory? Maybe they’re working together…” his voice trailed off for a moment. “I can’t really tell whose side anyone is on. Anyway. I’m meant to ask you about a book. But, it’s fine if you want me to leave. That’s fine. I’ll just go—now—no harm done, right?” 

Gerard closed his eyes briefly. “Five minutes.”

 

**_____________**

 

As his breathing returned to a semi-normal speed, Martin became aware of his surroundings. The flat was one large room, open and airy. Light filtered through large windows peacefully. The place was sparsely decorated, but it seemed more like some sort of intentional minimalism, rather than just empty. There were plants everywhere. 

Gerard followed his gaze, and some unknown emotion passed over his face briefly. “I’ve had enough of dark, dusty rooms.” Martin nodded. He’d read enough statements to imagine what growing up in Mary’s shop was probably like. 

They sat at a small table, hand painted with bright, abstract strokes, in splashes of blues and greens. Martin traced his finger around one lightly. “This is beautiful,” he muttered, forgetting the situation for a moment.

When he glanced up, Gerard was staring at him. His expression was still unreadable, but Martin felt like he was being assessed, scanned over and evaluated like one of the texts.

“So.” Gerard tapped his fingers pointedly. Right. Martin was there for a purpose. After rambling about Peter’s request for a bit without pausing for breath, Gerard finally cut him off.

“Listen. I sold the shop, okay? _Everything_ in it. I’m done. I can give you the names of a few buyers who bought in bulk.” He opened his arms a bit, “That’s the best I can do.”

Martin pressed his elbows on the table and scrubbed a hand across his face as Gerry wrote on a slip of paper. “Thank you,” he said, attempting a smile as he stood up. “I really am sorry to bother you.”

Gerard felt an unfamiliar twinge in his chest. 

He met Martin’s eyes. “You’re stuck there, aren’t you?”

“Something like that, yeah. Hm. Exactly that, actually.”

Gerard paused for a second, and hoped he wouldn’t regret this. “I work at a bar down the street. If you wanna come bitch about spooky things some time, that’d be alright.”

Martin looked taken aback, but his smile was a bit more genuine this time. “Thanks, Gerard.” 

Gerard nodded as he walked him out. “Gerry’s fine.”

“Thanks, Gerry.”

 

**_____________**

 

Jon wakes up.

Peter gave Martin a rather _harsh_ squeeze on the shoulder and explained in no uncertain terms that seeing him wasn’t allowed. In fact, he made it abundantly clear that everyone at the institute was off limits. 

Martin tried meeting new people—he really did, but it always just felt so _wrong_. How was he supposed to connect with someone while hiding _everything_ about his life? He found one-night stands now and again, but he couldn’t stand the forced pillow talk after. And he started to feel guilty about his 4am exits.

So, he found himself standing in the only bar near Gerry’s flat.

It was definitely a hole in the wall, and more than a little dingy. Old fliers were taped all over the walls and ceiling, the booths all seemed to have a few tears in them, and the pool table looked ready to buckle at any moment. It was early on a Tuesday night, and the place was almost completely empty.

He felt decidedly out of his element. The few people there looked like locals, and it felt like the entire place turned to stare at him. The moment passed quickly enough though, and everyone seemed to turn back to their mugs and conversations.

He sat at the bar, where no one seemed to be working, and felt completely daft. But soon after, he heard a voice calling to someone in the back. Gerry walked out of swinging doors, wiping his hands on a rag. He somehow didn’t look surprised when his eyes landed on Martin, even though they’d last seen each other months ago. Almost like he’d expected him to come eventually. Martin wanted to lean on the counter, look casual like people in films, but his jumper was a nice mint green, and the counter looked sticky. So he folded his hands in his lap, feeling a bit like he was back in Sunday mass.

He approached the counter, stuffing the rag in his back pocket. “What’ll it be?” Martin glanced at the beers on tap and blurted out the first one he laid eyes on.

He slid the mug in front of Martin unceremoniously and leaned on the counter, looking faintly amused.

“So. Have you come to complain about the trials and tribulations of the supernatural?”

Martin quickly looked left and right, brow furrowing.

“Relax, no one’s listening.”

“I was just—just a bit bored, I guess. I don’t really know.” 

Gerry shrugged. “Fair enough.” He grabbed two shot glasses and pushed one towards Martin. “Whiskey alright?”

“Oh! I don’t really," he paused for a beat. "Actually, sure. Why not?”

Gerry poured liberal amounts in both. “Cheers,” he muttered drily.

Martin managed about a quarter of it before coughing so violently Gerry looked genuinely concerned. “Was that some sort of punishment for the last visit?” He eventually sputtered out.

Gerry laughed—a light and airy sound, and at a higher pitch then he would’ve imagined. Martin found he rather liked it.

“You’re not much of a drinker.” It was more statement than question. Martin stared at his mug, still filled to the brim.

“Well. It’s not exactly that. I just don’t like beer. Or whiskey.”

“Ah. You’re more into sex on the beach.”

Martin choked on the sip of beer he’d been making a valiant effort to drink.

Gerard held his hands up. “It’s just a cocktail. With a lot of fruit in it.”

“Right. I’ll—I’ll give it a try. The drink, I mean. I’ll try the drink.”

Martin ended up having three, and left looking flushed and smiling. Gerry realized he was smiling too.

 

**_____________**

 

Martin came by every Tuesday after that. He made him Moscow Mules, Mojitos, Cosmopolitans, even an Old Fashioned (which he hated).

When he got off early one night, Martin offered to walk him home. Gerry invited him inside, and he— _a gentleman_ —planned on making him a grilled cheese. A wholesome activity. _Martin_ was the one who pressed him against the counter gently.

Martin was the one who stroked the small of his back, peppered kisses just below his jawline, slid his jacket off, grazed his teeth over his bottom lip. Whatever confidence he lacked elsewhere clearly didn’t apply here. _Christ._ His eyelids fluttered, his stomach flipped. 

But when he tugged Martin's shirt off, Gerry inhaled sharply. He gently placed his hands on his hip bones—and they fit over each dark bruise perfectly. He knew they would fit the yellowing ones on his upper arm too. 

He looked up and raised his eyebrows. 

Martin just shrugged, pushing his hair out of his eyes. 

“Peter can be,” he paused, “ _overzealous_ at times.”

Before he could respond, Martin started trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses up his neck as his hand slid lower. Gerry moaned quietly and let it go. 

 

**_____________**

 

“Is this really necessary?” Gerry asked drily. 

Martin let out an exasperated huff. “Yes. Your face is quite lovely and I’d like to see it every now and then. Besides, you _promised_. And—okay— _and_ , weren’t you just complaining that those giant sunflowers don’t even show?” His newest tattoo covered most of the right side of his neck, his jaw, and a bit of his face. 

“Still. I meant you could do a quick one. Where did you even learn how to do this?” 

Martins hands were gently pulling strands of dark hair into some sort of elaborate French braid. Considering that it had grown to halfway down his back, they’d been sitting on the rug for over an hour. The fact that they’d smoked two spliffs didn’t exactly speed things along. But there was music playing softly, incense burning, and he couldn’t pretend he didn’t love his hands on his body, in any capacity. 

Martin gave a slightly embarrassed laugh, and the puff of air on Gerry’s neck did something to the speed of his heartbeat. 

“Well I’ve pretty much always been,” Gerry turned to see him gesture to his lavender jumper and lipgloss. “You know, like _this_ , so I mainly had girl friends growing up.”

It was all too easy to imagine a young Martin surrounded by a gaggle of girls, giggling over something or another. He wondered if Martin used to be happy. 

“Anyway, recess consisted of a lot of braiding lessons.” 

“You know more than one kind?”

“Yes!” Marin said eagerly, with a note of pride. “Some are really easy.”

“I assume this one is not.”

“Oh no, this one took _ages_ to learn.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll need to sleep on your stomach though, unless you want me to redo it in the morning.”

Gerry groaned again, but knowing Martin wanted to wake up next to him made it difficult to care. 

 

**_____________**

 

They were sprawled across the leather sofa, a little wine tipsy, and smiling lazily at one other. As Gerry stroked his hair absentmindedly, Martin suddenly winced. Gerry paused, and gently pushed the tangled curls away from his neck. A row of purpling bruises were splayed across fair, freckled skin.

“Martin." Gerry tried to speak softly, and choose his words carefully. "Are you _okay_ with whatever is happening with Peter?” 

Martin pulled the sleeves of his jumper over his hands, shifting uncomfortably. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know it’s probably messed up. I mean, it _is_ messed up, but it helps. When I'm at the institute, feeling lost—it’s somehow grounding? I mean, he is a bit rougher than I’d _prefer."_

“But it's my idea,” he hurried on, “Usually, anyway. I’m sorry I haven’t fully addressed it. It’s just that—sometimes it makes being there a little more bearable.” 

He trailed off for a moment and then abruptly sat up. He looked ready to bolt, as if Gerry would throw him out in the dead of night. 

“I’m sorry! This isn’t fair to you. I should’ve told you it was still happening, I’m being selfish, I'm sorry, I—” 

“Martin,” Gerry gently placed his hand on top of his, and ran soothing circles across it. “Martin, look at me. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have to go there every day. Christ, whatever you need to do—it doesn’t bother me. I’m just making sure it’s something _you want_ to do.”

Martin looked down at their tangled hands and smiled sadly.

“I wish it wasn't.”

 

**_____________**

 

Gerry almost always wakes up first. But when he hears Martin start to stir, he climbs back into bed and pulls the white bedspread around them. There’s an expression Martin always has when he first wakes up: peaceful, uncaring, unblemished. It only lasts a few seconds, and he tries to catch it when he can. And then, he watches as reality seems to crush him. His brow creases, his eyes seem to dull—and Gerry pulls him against his chest.

He cries a lot lately. Completely silent, still as anything, but Gerry’s shirts are soaked through almost every morning.

 

**_____________**

 

Martin doesn’t dream anymore—he only sees fog. But it isn’t dense, harsh, and suffocating. Nothing like the way it is when he's awake. It’s soft and kind. He floats. It’s _comforting_ , cocooning—he wants to stay there. When he wakes, he wonders if Peter puts these visions in his mind. He wonders if reality could actually feel like that. He wonders if it would be that way if he finally gave up Gerry, gave up Jon. He wonders but he doesn’t find out.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so tired, but I couldn't stop thinking about this ship. Be nice to me.
> 
>    
> [Also here's a moodboard, because I'm extra af](https://ibb.co/QnV3qz5)


End file.
